Hold music has become the soundtrack of my life
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As I write this, I'm sitting here waiting for someone to answer my call so that I can order tickets to an event later in the year. When I first dialled in, I was twenty-seventh in the queue. That was fifty minutes ago and I've been number sixteen for the last ten. There's something decidedly British about queuing, even on the phone. We just can't help ourselves. Frustrated as we may be on the inside, to leave a queue is to admit defeat.
On this particular line, the noise I hear—because there is no better description—alternates randomly between two extremes. On the one hand, I have a normal 'ringing' noise; the sort you would expect on a standard call. On the other, I have some incredibly irritating choral/orchestral music. The music is themed to the event and it's supposed to be grandiose and gothic. Unfortunately, the sound level is such that it's horribly distorted so it just comes off as fuzzy and annoying. On a regular basis either of these is interrupted by a polite, but equally irritating message informing me of my position in the queue (which, more often than not, is the same as it was the last time she told me). After that message, it's anyone's guess whether I'll get the ringing noise or the ghastly distorted choral thing.
Nevertheless, for the last hour, this has been the soundtrack to my life. Because I'm 'waiting', it's difficult to start anything else. Even with a cordless phone, I can't exactly leave my position to do anything too adventurous. Instead I'm sitting at my computer trying to find other ways to occupy my time. Facebook held my interest for a few minutes while I checked to see if anything interesting has been happening (it hasn't), and Windows Spider Solitaire was only briefly entertaining. So, I've resorted to blogging.
When in a queue like this, the mind is allowed to wander. It contemplates the possibility that the phone at the other end of this call is, in fact, in a sealed room in an abandoned warehouse and will never actually be answered; and that the only reason I'm progressing through the queue at all is that those ahead of me are giving up. It muses over an alternative scenario in which a room full of operators eschew their responsibility in favour of a game of office tig. And it considers the countless thousands that might have taken their own lives, having listened to this dreadful choral music for just a few minutes too long.
A good hour after starting this blog, having been "next in the queue" for just over fifteen minutes, I'm still trying to reign in my imagination and prepare myself to actually order my ticket should the automated message's promise actually be fulfilled. Granted, having occupied said position for fifteen minutes, I can't help but think that if there is somebody ahead of me, they're ordering one of everything, and they’re doing so via Morse code.
My call ended after two hours, twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds. I spoke to the operator for approximately two of those minutes. I'm relieved to say I got the ticket I'd been waiting for. Now I just hope the event was worth the effort.